


And In The Silence That Follows

by lazywriter7



Series: And In The Silence That Follows [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (also possible unintentional ableist slur at one point?), (kind of maybe), Angry Clint Barton, Angst and Feels, Bittersweet, Bot Feels, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Civil War Fix-It, F/M, Family Feels, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Peter Is Amazing, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Rhodey Feels, Steve Rogers Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, civil war aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-06 03:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6736924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazywriter7/pseuds/lazywriter7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But as a guy who’s never been good at anything but killing- lemme tell you this. Wars can come to us, and we can fight to end them.”</p><p>“But nothing’s ever worth starting one. Nothing at all.”</p><p>As the dust of Civil War starts to settle- Steve begins to see a couple of things.</p><p>(Spoilers ahead)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Important notes:
> 
> 1) SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS. SPOILERS AHOY FOR NEW CAPTAIN AMERICA CIVIL WAR MOVIE. DON'T READ IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IT. DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU
> 
> 2) The characters' opinions- be it Steve, Tony, Sam, Clint etc. are not necessarily shared by the author. Kindly do not leave comments yelling about how wrong I am. Also, all comments are appreciated- except ship shamers. If you disagree with anything, I will respect your opinion and I would hope you to respect mine. Again- a comment left for the sole purpose of telling me how wrong I am is unnecessary and unfruitful, and will be summarily ignored.
> 
> 3) A couple of quotes, usually in italics, have been taken from the CA:CW and Avengers: Age of Ultron.

Steve was painfully, incandescently happy the day he saved Bucky Barnes.

It was hard, to remember a point in his life when he had felt such…..singular emotion. One thing, and one thing alone. Untainted. Casting out, bleaching out everything else. It was like his heart was going to shake apart in his chest.

He could feel nothing- not his scored knees from being dragged repeatedly across the deathly cold concrete floor, not his bruised shoulder blades from being smashed against the wall, not the thick, blackened blood seeping thin and constant from his nostrils, not the repulsor scorch marks over his twisted ribs.

They were silent, as they staggered outside: the cold Siberian sun shining down bright and white on their shadowed lids. The steady crunch of snow under their boots the only sound- after their eardrums had gone deaf from anguished screams and whines and fists and metal hitting metal. Then they listed suddenly to the side- adrenaline had run out and Steve’s limbs had gone weak, and Bucky tumbled over and landed butt-first in the snow.

They laughed.

Their laughter was too soft, too raspy to challenge the yawning silence of the Siberian wasteland. Yet they laughed- up and up at the sky, and Steve thought of the memory of Bucky’s hand too far for him to reach and slipping into the abyss, and felt no pain. It was like a man with a chronic illness had woken up one day to find his eyes unclouded, the fever gone, the thrice-damned pain banished as if it had never been there in the first place. It felt wonderful.

He felt his shoulders loosen, releasing the guilt of seventy years out into the thin, chilly air, and he let them fall back- let them hit the ground packed with snow and let his arms, unburdened by any weapon wave back and forth. _Snow angel_ , he thought, giddily, and the snort from Bucky not a second later set his mirth free- again……..god. God. He’d never felt so grateful in his life.

_IsavedhimIsavedhimIsavedhim-_

“Captain?”

The all-too familiar word, in an almost entirely unfamiliar accent caught him off-guard, and he jerked up, eyes flying open and fixating on a black figure in the surrounding white, not five hundred metres away. The Panther stood, helm off and tucked into the crook of his shoulder, shoulders pulled back straight and tight. He looked regal against the background, but somehow Steve’s addled mind kept focusing on the unimportant things, and how ice and snow didn’t look so ugly anymore.

Not twenty metres away, Bucky stiffened- and just like that, Steve’s mind was clear: muscles curling in preparatory action, right arm rising slightly in defence (and that, was the first drop of something infiltrating the purity, the faintest sense of displacement and something not being the way it used to be and….saudade).

T’Challa’s face was worn, lines upon lines drawn upon it as if hewn on stone- but there was the slightest curve to his lips at the visible reaction.

“Allow me to help.”

~

 

The happiness was still surging, strong and sure; so much that it barely registered a blip when barely forty eight hours after they’d crawled out of Siberia alive, Bucky told him that he wanted to be put back in ice.

“I’m glad for anything you choose, Buck.” He said, hand on Bucky’s smoothened, metallic stump (it was the best even T’Challa could do, with the wires charred black and burnt to a crisp as they were…). “You’ve had that right taken away from you long enough.”

It soothed something small and raw in his chest, the sight of Bucky’s exhausted lips pulling into a smile that somehow, remotely resembled peace. The erstwhile Soldier leaned back, the chamber clicked shut, and ice puffed over the glass.

Steve smiled, and kept smiling as T’Challa reassured him that nothing could touch Bucky in here.

Then. Then.

 

Then the quiet began.

 

~

 

He jerked awake, the satin sheets sliding against the cold night sweat that soaked his limbs, lips parted in a silent scream. Sleep mocked him gleefully, beckoning him into its mindless embrace and then shoving him out, terror ringing in his ears and hands scrabbling down his chest to feel warm skin instead of cold meta-

He winced, looked down- to see callused fingers pressing into purpled skin: there was a line of deep, vividly dark bruises congealing in a thick line, neatly bisecting his chest- darkest near the heart. His eyes clenched shut almost immediately in response, but then the nightmare images came back: Obie’s bald pate, mouth snarling and flecked with spittle, short and stubby fingers stretching towards the arc reactor except then the fingers started gleaming silver and metallic and-

“Tones?”

Tony opened his eyes and looked up, and Rhodey took a step in from the doorway, and buckled. Tony’s mind went white, and he kicked the covers off while scrabbling to clamber off the bed and reach across the expansive bedroom in time. They crashed into the doorway, and Rhodey’s pained, muted whimper as they both sank to the mahogany floor; would sear and scar itself into Tony’s memory forever.

They breathed for interminable seconds, harshly, together; one from pain and one from terror. Tony cursed himself a million times for not installing FRIDAY into the Avengers facility yet- but he had wanted to keep himself distant and vaguely there while the main training was handled by Ca-

“Tony, you’re gonna leave bruises.”

His fingertips and knuckles were white, digging into Rhodey’s shoulder in a useless attempt to attain balance when they’d crumpled to the ground. He should have realised it, loosened his grip, pulled them back. He should not have glanced down at his own bare chest, a deer’s frightened twitch- where the contusions lay stark against his skin like a brand.

Rhodey’s mouth primmed itself into a forbidding line. He noticed- of course, he noticed. “The old nightmare again?”

“Yeah.” Something breathed, using his voice. Tony let his head tilt back, fall with a clunk against the door, eyes seeing things millions of lifetimes and just a couple of weeks away.

“I thought I’d left that particular one behind.”

 

~

 

“You should pick that up.”

Steve lifted his eyes, from where he’d been absentmindedly twisting the beer can cover’s metal thingy into freakish shapes, and directed an unimpressed look at Sam. The phone kept buzzing half-heartedly on the table, face down on a sticky surface that had seen god knows how many spilled fluids.

Sam raised an unimpressed brow back- Steve resented him for it, because he’d never been able to pull that particular trick. Not like he’d ever say that out loud though. It was so sneakily satisfying to let Sam think that Steve was better than him at (mostly) everything.

“You should.”

“And you should shut your gob.” Steve threw back, and hailed the bartender for another beer. They were both in dark sunglasses and baseball caps, naturally- well, Steve had been, and Sam had forewent the cap, and Steve had plopped one on his head with Sam grumbling all the way about Steve apparently buying out Target’s entire stock (he wouldn’t be entirely wrong).

There was an almost ominous silence in response to that, and Steve felt almost obliged to provide a reason (and resented Sam all the more for it), “It’s Sharon.”

“So?”

“So I’m a _fugitive from justice_ ,” Steve had to reduce his register to a whisper, but it was still rather irate for all of that, “-and she’s working for the government, and the two of us having any kind of contact could lead to suspicion falling on her and massive consequences.”

“Right.”

“That’s……all you have to say?” Steve probably should count his blessings, but Sam was being suspiciously quiet, and knowing him, it wouldn’t last long. Better sooner than later. “You’re okay with it?”

“I…..look Cap.” Sam heaved a massive, dramatic sigh and Steve’s eyes rolled before he could even begin on whatever tangent he was going to start now. “You know I got your back. You do. And when you go around kissing leggy blondes….I’m all for it. But you gotta admit, this thing with Sharon _Carter_ is a little….”

The warmth rose to Steve’s cheeks before he was even fully conscious of it, and his tone was perhaps a little too defensive for complete truth. “A little what?”

Sam stared at him point blank, as if refusing to believe his…..moronic-ness, or some other new-fangled word for thick in the head. “It’s a little weird.”

“It’s not weird.”

“It’s weird.”

“It’s not weird.”

“It’s a _little_ weird.”

“Its _not_ \- “ Steve darted a quick glance around for eavesdroppers, and proceeded to furiously whisper, “- _weird_ , alright? And besides, it isn’t even happening.” The phone stopped buzzing. He folded his arms across his chest. “So there.”

Sam sighed heavily again. “Whatever you say.” Then a quick glance, down at his wrist where his watch was strapped; the third time this evening.

The irritation, the teasing, vanished as quick as if they hadn’t even been there. His tone was sober, “Somewhere you gotta be?”

“Nah.” Sam waved the question off carelessly, but his thumb fidgeted with the base of the beer can. Steve proceeded to array his features into what his friends called the ‘Captain-America-slash-Concerned-Dad’ look (well, only one person ever called it that, but Tony wasn’t arou-); and Sam breathed out a soft puff of amusement in response.

“It’s nothing. Well.” The thumb fidgeted further. The teasing tone was draining slow, but steady, from his voice. “Me and the guys, from the old unit. We used to get together, once a year, same day, drink to the guys that didn’t make it- Riley, couple of others. Grab a drink, reminisce…..you know what I mean?”

“I…yeah.” Steve’s throat was a little tight. He tried to clear it, but it didn’t quite work. “Today’s the day?”

“Yeah. 22nd Feb. Anniversary of our most successful mission. Maximum number of rescues, no casualties.” Sam smiled- it flicked in and out of existence just as quickly. “Thought it was dead depressing to do it on one of the guys’ death days, or Memorial day…y’know.”

“Of course.” It was like the affirmative words were falling out, one after the other, tripping out from Steve’s tongue- but they didn’t mean anything. “I’m…I’m sorry Sam.”

 “It’s fine, Cap.” Sam had always called him Cap more than Steve, more than almost anyone else, but now that he didn’t have the shield anymore, the nickname jarred somehow (or at least that’s what he thought the reason was). And it jarred even more now, with Sam’s eyes clouded over with memory, and the life and friends that he was being kept away from.

“You must miss your….. routine.” God, what a bonehead thing to say.

Sam shrugged loosely. “Can’t lie. I’d just renovated the kitchen at the DC ‘partment, even though I spent most of the week in the Facility. Mrs. Harris from the bakery two blocks over was nice. Always gave me free apple-and-rhubarb muffins.”

“No blueberry?” Steve asked, almost on reflex.

Sam stopped, with a strange look directed at Steve that he couldn’t parse. “No.” Then he shook his head a little, and continued. “Anyway….I guess it’s the VA I miss the most. Some of the folks there had been coming along really well.”

 _They’d do well without you too_. Steve wanted to say, but couldn’t, because one ear couldn’t be exchanged for another- and Sam was more than a ear. He was the most empathetic person Steve had ever known, with a staggering touch for healing. It was almost cruel to keep him away from helping people.

So of course, what he ended up saying was an astoundingly unhelpful- “Maybe we can stick it out together for the night?”

“Now now, Cap. _You_ were the one harping on how ‘it isn’t safe to have everyone under one roof’.” Sam pushed the empty can away, and stretched his arms over his head in languorous preparation. “Don’t go backsies on your own words now.”

“Right.” Sam’s words were as buoyant as ever. There was still something churning in Steve’s gut though, deep and unsettling- like once it started, it wasn’t stopping easily.

Sam appeared oblivious to that though. Or maybe he was pretending. He was kind like that, sometimes. “Besides, not like I’ve missed any kid birthdays lately.”

“Kid….” Steve began, then winced halfway. The churning deepened. “Clint missed one of the kids’ birthdays?”

“Lila.” Sam voiced, quiet and considerate. Another lightning-in-a-bottle smile. “Hey, we all make our sacrifices. Don’t beat yourself over the head for it.”

“Right.” Steve said, again. He almost wished for an actual drink rather than an empty can- it always looked so…..peaceful maybe wasn’t the word, but something like it, when a hero stared into the bottom of a drink in the pictures. Like he had found all the answers. “He should go back to the farm.”

There was an almost untenable pause at the end of that, like Sam knew what he wanted to say and didn’t know whether to say it. “Tony knows about the farm.”

“Tony wouldn’t.” Yeah, a drink would definitely be nice. Now it was less like churning, and more like cold lead was settling somewhere deep in his gut.

Another pause. Steve looked up, and Sam’s steady gaze looking back made him feel…..small, somehow. “To tell you the truth, Steve, I don’t know what any of us would or wouldn’t do anymore.”

He opened his mouth to- he didn’t know what really, but a half-spoken word from somewhere else sparked his attention. Maybe if the conversation topic had been different, he wouldn’t have caught it; but under the circumstances, the almost inaudible drone from the screen atop the bar pricked his eardrums unerringly-

“-ny Stark met with the Chinese foreign minister to ease out some final wrinkles with the Accords, in a step that rang out assurance for all Asian powers that were concerned about ‘superheroes’ being too Western-centric-“

Steve looked up. Tony looked……he had a three-piece suit on, a recent look he’d picked up that he was now sporting everywhere(from his father, from his father, so that people would take him more se-) and perfectly groomed hair, and was walking through the throng of reporters alone. He had ‘fired’ Happy after that Extremis mishap, and Pepper was…..right, they weren’t. He had resources though. Surely he could employ someone to keep the media at a distance, stop them from clambering all over him, shoving mikes into his face. But Tony Stark didn’t even need that. He could project an aura that made you want to keep a ten-feet distance, fling out fast-flying jabs that would insult your dressing sense and your mental faculties and your purpose in life (but never family, because Tony would never be so crude) before you could blink thrice.

He wasn’t, though. He was walking, alone, while the world screamed in his face.

“He should have an Avenger with him.” Steve murmured, too quiet to be heard.

Evidently not. For Sam smiled next to him, lips twisted, voice filled with a queer, bitter compunction. “Which one? The android or the cripple?”

The air…. _punched_ out of Steve’s lungs; his chest contracting rapidly and throat drying with a tightness that felt like someone had actually dealt him a blow in the gut. He blinked rapidly, swallowing again and again, but it was like breathing had quit on him and air was refusing to cooperate- he turned, but Sam was already sliding out of the seat and smiling, with that same caustic shame, “Catch ya later, Cap.”

He walked away, and Steve kept staring at his back, as if in remote pleading for him to stay and explain- but Steve knew, and he did not know, and he knew, but didn’t _get_ \- and he looked back up at that small screen where he was seeing Tony Stark’s face for the first time since he’d brought the shield down on the reactor and seen Tony’s face snarling in rage and hurt and….and what? What?

Steve had left the shield. He’d given Tony the Avengers. That’s what he’d written in the letter. Hadn’t he? Hadn’t he?

_Which one? The android or the cripple?_

Tony’s impassive features provided no answer.

 

~

 

“It isn’t safe.” T’Challa repeated, slow and measured.

“I…I know.” Steve tried, and failed, to peer over the Wakandan king’s shoulder to the doorway behind, which…what? Led to hallways and corridors and ten staircases which may or may not lead to the room that Bucky was being kept secure in? It was ridiculous.

He brought his eyes back towards the African royal, and was struck anew by his stature- for all his litheness in combat, the Black Panther was a tall, broad-shouldered man with impressive presence. A calming one too, at that. Bucky was safe here. He knew it. Why was he fretting so much?

“We just……we didn’t have much time together. Amid all the fighting. I miss him, I suppose.” Steve smiled a little ruefully, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand. It was true enough, he guessed.

“Understandable enough under the circumstances.” There was a notable pause, where a name or title should have been. Steve had noticed that King T’Challa seemed cautious to avoid addressing him- maybe because of the obvious absence of the shield, and they definitely weren’t casual enough to call each other by their first names. He didn’t know what the issue with a simple Mr. Rogers was, though.

“ _Oh god, Steve, sometimes I wish you weren’t a Captain if only so I could bless my ears with everyone calling you Mr Rogers- Bruce, come here and explain sharing humiliating surnames with Saturday morning children show hosts to Steve-“_

 “However, I must dissuade you from coming here again.” T’Challa continued and Steve blinked- for all of that commanding presence, his thought had still drifted away somehow- and blinked again, for the man was sounding impeccably serious. Grim, almost. “You can be tracked here. For all that Wakanda can assert its own sovereignty, I will still be hard-pressed to deny the world powers should they become suspicious and start sniffing around. Bombing charges dropped or not, your friend is still the Winter Soldier.”

“Of course, I understand comple- I’m sorry, charges dropped?” Steve was all aboard on the train of placation, but those words were too grabbing not to demand further elaboration.

T’Challa inclined his head, just a couple of degrees. “You know how I dropped Zemo off at the mercy of the international authorities. I’ve been meeting with Everett Ross myself every couple of weeks, following up on speedy indictment and punishment.”

“So he confessed to the UN bombing in Vienna?”

“Yes. But the ramblings of a trauma survivor matter little against video evidence, prior record and the assumptions of the horde.” T’Challa barely moved as he spoke, clearly a man not given to gestures or fidgeting. “I am to understand that there was some new physical evidence brought to light.”

New physical evidence brought to light. Tony’s face in the flickering light of the Siberian bunker, drawn tight with apprehension as he explained what he had found, how the international police and media had been duped. His half-hearted quip to Bucky to lower the gun, that there had been a ‘truce’, that he’d made a mistake.

“He had the charges dropped.” Steve said, numbly.

“There are still over twenty seven counts of murder alone on the Soldier, all almost certainly confirmed. This doesn’t really change much for your friend.” T’Challa spoke, something almost like caution tinging his tone.

 _Doesn’t it?_ Steve wanted to ask, mind still blaring static. _Depends on which friend you’re referring to._ And then, again, like a player struck on a broken record. _He had the charges dropped._

But..

_“So **was** I.”_

“But to answer your question….” But the pronoun was too unspecific. The Panther couldn’t know who was being referred to. And yet there was something so _sharp_ about him, almost shrewd- “He did.”

The murder counts still stood. Howard and Maria’s…….oh god, the images still made the bile rebel and rise in his throat. But the crime that Bucky had specifically, physically not committed…..Tony had them dropped. Of course he did.

The body of lead that had been sinking in his gut for the past…..days? Weeks? – sagged several inches further. When had it gotten so cold in here?

 

A beep inaudible to all but superhuman ears had the king glancing down at his wrist cuff- that perhaps wasn’t just an ordinary wrist cuff after all, Steve should have learned by now that deceptive technology could be cloaked anywhere and in anything, if from no one else but T- no, no, bad topic. Redirect.

“I am sorry, but I must excuse myself. A rather urgent matter has come up, and I must fly out of Wakanda immediately.” For all of said urgency, T’Challa was as still and stoic as stone. “Forgive my poor hospitality, I and the Wakandan people would love to avail ourselves of the opportunity to entertain you better at a later date.”

“No your highness, thank you. You have been very kind.” And then, perhaps because he was getting a little restless. “Is it a matter for the Panther?”

T’Challa paused, the black eyes surveying and scrutinising Steve to his very soul, it felt like. “Of a kind. I’m actually heading out to meet the very topic of our just concluded conversation.”

That….didn’t make much sense. Unless…..and it was a bad topic, but the word scraped out all the same, “..Tony?”

“Yes.” But there was no elaboration, and T’Challa turned away and bent his head, making flicking gestures over the cuff and Steve couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut.

“So it’s a…diplomatic thing? Trade?”

Another pause, and Steve was getting tired and frustrated with the quiet; the quiet that interrupted even when he was with other people. Maybe they didn’t mean it to be so, but it weighed down on him, like he had wronged it somehow and the quiet was asking questions and it _demanded_ answers so it could be filled and Steve had…nothing.

Or maybe the other people did mean for the silence to weigh just so- but T’Challa just interjected with a non-committal, “I suppose.”

“But you said it might be a matter for the Panther.” Now, of a sudden, it was like he had too many words- clumsy, ill-forged ones, but they still weren’t the ones he needed. “Are you…are you going to fight with him?”

That…that flicker of an expression could almost be called a smile. “If you remember, Mr Rogers, I fought _with_ him the last time too.”

 _Tony’s right, it does sound stupid_.

And maybe that was easier to think, than- _I asked him to call me if he needed me_.

The former thought was more stupid, perhaps. But at least it wasn’t half as naïve as the latter.

“So are you an-“ _Avenger, Avenger, Aven-_ but that was too hard to voice, and he told his tongue to change direction, but it listened to him too well. And what came out was:

“Are you his friend, now?”

 And the quiet returned, vicious and silent and ever-encompassing, punctuated by the Black Panther’s cool, detached gaze. There was no judgement, only something curiously akin to pity. No, kinder. Sympathy, maybe. Like a look Steve might give a soldier who was stuck in the very hurdles Steve had long past.

No judgement. Yet Steve found himself being judged anyway.

“I don’t think Mr. Stark much cares to make friends anymore.”

 

~

 

Queens was a dump of a place.

Tony could recall some choice, singularly brilliant rants against Queens- emitted by yours truly on better days. He could compose a soliloquy on the grand opulence of Manhattan verse the shabby…..shabbiness of Queens (see? Even his tremendously creative masterpiece of a mind was stumped when it came to describing the blandness of Queens).

Keeping all that in mind…..irony would laugh itself silly at the fact that _Queens_ appeared to be the only place nowadays where Tony could feel some fraction of peace.

Maybe because Queens didn’t expect Tony fucking Stark to be meandering in its lanes, not strutting or demanding attention. People just hurried by on their own business, harried and tunnel-visioned. They just looked so……purposeful. Like they knew exactly where to go and what to do, even if they didn’t necessarily enjoy it.

Even if he could see value in Queens now past all the snobbery….sometimes he wasn’t quite sure if the snobbery was real, even back then. As a kid, he’d zoom past the smaller boroughs of New York, nose flattened against a limousine window- and watch the kids playing on the streets. He’d imagine being poor (and what a fucking joke was that, how condescending, a rich kid growing in the silky embrace of luxury wishing to live a little closer to the ground), imagine growing up like his father did, maybe; son to a fruit seller on the Lower East Side. Maybe then his genius would feel a bit more real to the people around him. A bit better deserved. Money _and_ brains- what a twat indeed.

But more than that, he’d wish to be down-on-his-luck because that’s how his heroes always began. They struggled and strived, against evil and the system. No one found wealth very challenging. The rich were never particularly heroic.

But of course, that was his younger, naïve self- he flushed the dream of heroism somewhere between MIT and Stark Industries. Then Iron Man happened and……well. Maybe the naiveté was a bit more resilient than he’d thought.

It was a curious quality- naiveté. He didn’t know if he quite admired, or despised it.

(He thought he’d admired it in Steve….the naiveté of his idealism. But of course the tables turned, and he despised himself- because the only naïve fool around here was him.)

Peter, though. His age almost ensured his naivete, except for the fact that people his age nowadays were more cynical than most- and he had…ideas, about power and responsibility that made Tony feel like he wanted to hide the boy away from the world, free from taint. He’d only felt like that once before.

And yet, in the same breath, something in him, something almost monstrous- itched to _tear_ down those ideas, show the kid how they actually _worked_ in reality: for someone was going to do it in the future, foe or friend, and they wouldn’t be half as considerate about it.

It was a conscious, mammoth effort to pull his hand away from where it was clenched above his chest, rigid and shaking.

He knocked.

“Coming!” He heard Peter yell, and then the sound of tennis shoes pounding down a staircase. A misstep- “-mother _fracking_ -“ and Tony could feel his lips curve up as naturally as anything, god- Peter reminded him how easy it used to be.

The door flew open, like it always did, narrowly missing Tony’s nose and cracking against the sidewall, taking some more plaster down with it. There Peter was, half-standing, half-crouched, vigorously rubbing the ankle that had presumably gotten twisted during the mishap on the way to the door. His black fringe flopped over his eyebrows as he squinted dubiously- “Mr Stark?”

And then, of a sudden, Tony felt abruptly, incredibly embarrassed- a man in his late forties standing outside a teenager’s door, seeking…..what? Comfort? Solace? _Company_ , his mind sneered back- god, what was he even _doing_ -

“Come in!” Peter squeaked, backing up rapidly away from the door as if Tony was a wight that would vanish at the slightest delay or provocation- except his ankle clearly wouldn’t stand for it. Balance was lost, and his arms flailed and pinwheeled around as his scrawny body tipped back, landing with an ‘oof!’- and Tony found himself staring down at a seventeen year old sitting on his butt in the foyer of his apartment, gawking right back at him

“Jesus, kid.” And just like that, the insecurity was gone- fuck, it was like the kid was _magic_. “You do not need to tell me how awful your high school life is.”

Peter scowled almost immediately. “Har de-har har.” And then the scowl replaced itself with a look of blind panic. “No wait, I didn’t mean that- yes, my high school life is absolutely and totally terrible, you can crack as many jokes about it as you like-“

“Excellent.” Tony cut across with brusque efficiency, proffering a hand. Peter took it and propelled himself up- a vast improvement from the first time Tony had offered a handshake and Peter had poked at it to see if his finger would pass through like that of a ghost. “We can swap stories then.”

“I doubt it.” Peter scoffed, and then his eyes widened again, “NO, I mean, I didn’t mean to mean you didn’t mean it, it’s just that you’re Tony _Stark_ and it’s a little, okay only completely, entirely, impossible to imagine you having a terrible social life.”

“It would seem so, wouldn’t it?” Tony shut the door behind them, patting his sense of responsibility in the back a little while he did it. Robbers were a great problem in Queens, he’d heard. Though it would be the epitome of bad luck if a burglar chose Spiderman’s apartment of all the shitholes in the place…..a couple of broken bones at the very least, and a great deal of humiliation. The kid liked playing around with his food, a little. As long as the morsels were appropriately-sized, Tony had absolutely zilch problems with it. He was even a little proud.

“Except……I entered high school when I was _eight_.” Peter goggled a little at this, opening and closing his mouth, choosing to respond a little frustratedly with- “But you still- I mean you can- people still-“ A throwing up of the hands, as if to say ‘ _fuck words anyway_ ’, “How do you make people _like_ you?”

And then, the magic ended, the trick was complete, the delusion gone. The smile that had been sitting so naturally upon his lips twisted- hell, it was _un_ natural, and it fled just as quick as it had arrived; and Tony stopped trying to pretend that every inch of his skin wasn’t aching, that his eyelids weren’t dry and stretched thin, that his back didn’t hurt and breathing wasn’t hard, that Vision wasn’t cooped up in the kitchen at ‘home’ making one after the other paprika-filled dish for an absent Wanda, that Rhodey wasn’t striving to keep the pain out of his voice every time he spoke, that Pepper wasn’t _gone,_ that he wasn’t spending his days appeasing and gratifying _assclowns_ that didn’t have the faintest idea about heroics for a group of heroes that didn’t care enough to _stay_ \- that being a fun and supportive….fucking _pseudo-dad_ to Peter was going to change _anything_ about how his relationship with Howard had ended.

 _Slaughtered,_ his mind whispered. _Cut mercilessly short. I wasn’t a kid anymore, he was less awkward around me, we could have…..could have started understanding each other better, **done** better-_

“You know what, Pete.” His voice was a rasp, and he didn’t even _care_ anymore. “You tell me when you figure that one out.”

The clock in the dining hall ticked, what sounded like rats scrabbled in the walls. Peter’s voice was noticeably more timid when he voiced, “New doodads?”

A second more, to let himself hurt- and then Tony pulled that unnatural smile right back where it belonged. “New doodads.”

 

 

“You know.” Peter began, a little apprehensively, after all the tech-flailing and idea-exchanging and science-rambling was done. There was an expansive hand gesture, probably in the direction of said ‘doodads’ scattered across his study desk- “Most…..um, adults. Would be pretty pissed that I was doing this.  Instead of. You know.”

“Encouraging you?” Tony arched a brow from his seat on the rolling chair, legs extended. He straightened with an accompanying chair creak- there had been several, very ominous creaks already emitted in the last half hour. “I don’t quite put much stock in the way things ‘should be’. Which seems a little counterintuitive for a futurist- but that’s the way things are. It’s my job to distinguish between utopias and futures that can actually, feasibly exist. It’s the only way to achieve anything in the world.”

He swivelled around to face Peter directly, who was standing across the room, by the window sill. “I know your type, Peter. I know your aunt could tie your hands and legs, put you in a room with boarded windows, and forbid you to ever wear the costume again. But wear it you will. Each and every single time.” Tony smiled, a bit grittier, a bit more real. “It’s in your blood.”

“So I don’t waste time forbidding you to do things you’re clearly born to do- and won’t stop doing, even if you break every. single. bone. in your body. I _know_ your type.” Peter looked straight back at him, sincere and honest and true, not denying a single word, and Tony tried to not let his throat clog. “So I make things for you. Armour, better shooters. Hell, a sexier mask. I keep you _safe_ , in the best, most _practical_ way I know how, because you’re too stubborn to listen to better.”

“Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t have dragged you to Germany. Maybe that was-“ A hiss of air released between closed teeth, he’d promised that he’d _never_ fool himself again, “Cut that, that was definitely irresponsible of me. But I trusted you to make your own choices, and you’re almost as strong as the fucking _Hulk_ , and I trusted you’d keep your distance as I’d asked, and I thought-“ _that it was a scrimmage, that it wouldn’t come to this, that Cap would never choose to endanger lives over surrendering, that he’d sign and we’d go back and no one would get hurt, and he’d scold me for bringing an almost-minor to a battlefield, that we were among **friends** -_

A released breath. “Never mind what I thought.”

 

“I appreciate it, Mr Stark.” Tony looked up, lost as he was among his ever-expanding mire of regrets, and saw the boy’s eyes practically shining with determination. It was…..it was a little awe-inspiring, really. “I can’t tell you how _much_ , trust me. I…..your trust means the _world_ to me and I swear I’ll never break-“

“Hold on, kid.” Tony stopped him right there, scrappy heart muscle under bruised skin twisting nastily under his rib-cage. “Let’s hold off on the sap and the tearful promises, alright?”

“Of course, of course.” Peter started nodding vociferously. But it was almost an impossibility stopping that train once it started going. “I still can’t believe I got to see the _Avengers_ up close though. The Black Widow- god, how does she _move like that_? And Hawkeye was like _miles_ away when his arrow cut my web, and Scarlet Witch and _magic_ and _Captain freaking America-_

Another nasty twist. “And Iron Man. Can’t forget about Iron Man.”

“-and the way that dude grew so _big_ , that totally violates the law of conservation of mass by the way- and god, Mr Stark. Can’t we meet in the Avengers facility the next time?” Archimedes almighty, those wheedling eyes. The joy and the excitement when Peter babbled, it made denying him incredibly difficult. “I mean, your world and mine, it’s just……it’s just so small, you know?”  

“I don’t know, kid.” He relinquished the chair with one last flourish, and a single fatal creak, walking over to stand next to Peter before the window. Outside, Queens bustled- in its crowded, closeted, comforting way. “I rather like your world.”

And there was something quiet and childish and wheedling about the next words too, though not spoken out loud.

_I don’t want to go back to mine._

“B-but meeting your heroes! Its like, I barely got to talk to-“

“Sometimes your heroes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.” And…damn. There it was. The little contemptuous, angry voice made of concentrated hurt. And he’d been doing so well too.

A pause. Then- “I dunno, Mr Stark.” Peter said, and something about that tone made Tony’s restless eyes dart away from Queens and towards the boy that was looking back at him steadily. “Mine have turned out pretty great so far.”

That….that was. It took several seconds for his genius brain to compute, for his body to stop freaking out that it was breathlessness, his chest drawing tight- in a good way.

“Tony.” He managed, after several more seconds. “Call me Tony.”

“I dunno.” Peter said again, face scrunching up like he was just another teenager that hadn’t just completely blindsided Tony fucking Stark. “You’re pretty old.”

“And you’re a pre-pubescent arachnid.” Tony said, or something else idiotic along those lines because there was laughter after that- laughter and banter and smiles- real ones- and lots, and lots of messing around with doodads.

 

~

 

 The quiet was louder here. Maybe because it was a wildlife sanctuary. But it had been getting louder for a long time, now.

Clint was…..scraping something off his arrows. The natural assumption would be that he was sharpening them- except his arrows were pre-customised and pre-designed and all other sorts of pre’s, with poison caps and electricity and heaven knows what else at the pointier end…..so sharpening them was kind of impossible and useless.

Wanda was upstream- there was a stream, or a brook, or one of those synonyms chattering past the nearby rocks; the faint gurgling sound was the only thing that broke the silence amidst the repetitive _scratch-scratch_ of Clint’s motions- and Steve was intensely grateful to that.

Because this wasn’t entirely a comfortable silence. Heck, it shouldn’t have been a silence at all; Clint should have been snarking and tossing out ridiculous jokes for Wanda to mock, leaving Steve to fill in the gaps with dry comments interspersed with concerned questions. But here Clint crouched by the stream with a very, very obvious shadow under his eyes, Wanda was out of sight and Steve…..couldn’t quite bring himself to ask how they were doing.

Clint had been adamant about taking Wanda along with him after the condition in which they’d recovered her from…..custody, and Steve couldn’t have been happier about it. She’d obviously latched on to Clint as a brother-figure after Pietro, someone to seek guidance from; and anyone who saw Clint with his kids would be a knucklehead to think he deserved any less. But Clint could also be…..wilful at times, and the way his drawn face was dipping in and out of light and shadow as he unendingly scraped at his weapons…it didn’t bode well.

“Alright then, Cap.” And there it was, that nickname again. It was almost mindboggling to see the number of places and times it popped up when Steve actually paid mind to it. But Clint was the focus here- his plain, non-nonsense, outright _exhausted_ voice. “Out with it.”

His beginning words were slow, almost cautious, “I want to ask how you’re doing.” …but hell, he’d never been one for cowardice, and he wouldn’t start now. “But I’m getting the feeling that I’m gonna get punched in the face if I tried.”

A short, sharp sound of amusement. Clint’s arm flexed as he drew back to pull another arrow out of the quiver, laying on the flat rock he was propping a foot on- all motions deliberate and economic. “I wanna tell you you’re not- but guarantees count for horseshit these days.”

And Steve’s shoulders pulled back a little at that because- well, there was obviously something wrong, but he hadn’t _actually_ believed Clint was going to hit him. It could be a joke. It started as a joke. But Clint was one of those perennial jokesters that could flip to deadly serious in the blink of an eye- smiling and unamused.

“Alright then.” He drew a breath in, straightened his back. “Tell me.”

There was a break there- a second of quiet that almost weighed heavier than anything Steve had been struggling with for the past few months: undercut sharply when Clint dropped the instruments in his hand with a clatter; light, piercing eyes that unerringly found their mark each and every time fixating on Steve’s face.

Before he could do more than twitch though, Clint had already begun- sharp yet resigned. “What do you want me to say, Cap? I miss my wife. I miss my kids.” The eyes swivelled away, tracing some unseen path through the undergrowth. His lips curled briefly to the side. “I miss my bloody best friend who’s apparently forgotten _everything_ about trust she’s learned over the years and lapsed to vanishing without a trace.”

And…..what could Steve say to that, really? His voice was deceptively steady. “I’m… sorry, Clint.”

“No. No.” And the eyes were back again, and Clint was uncurling from his crouched position to stand, unexpectedly severe. “I chose this. That’s not what you apologise for, Captain. Any more than Stark apologises for having an _ideological difference_ ,” and his mouth twisted further in incredulous contempt- “rather than knowing that any bit of paper isn’t worth throwing his teammates in _fucking jail_ -“

“Tony didn’t do that.” No thought preceded the words; the response was automatic, and far more assertive than Steve had been so far. It just…..it was an undeniable fact, to him. Not subject to discussion. “The General did. And just because he wasn’t behind bars, doesn’t mean he was any less of a prisoner. Besides,” And he had to soothe here, had to get more reasonable- Clint had believed he was going to be living with his family for good, being denied of that had to hurt, Steve had to understand- “I’d never have been able to spring you guys from an underwater max prison if Tony Stark really was in charge of keeping you there. Not with the resources I had.”

“So he let us go.” Clint said, flatly. “Doesn’t change the fact that we shouldn’t have been there in the first place. In fact,” And there was a step forward here, Clint’s shoulders straightening and pulling back, eyes as flashing and condemnatory as they’d ever been. “There were a great many things that happened that _never_ should have.”

And Steve….he had a tic. He knew about it. He could never stand to be quiet when someone was in his face, issuing challenges. Even when he should have. Maybe that was one of the reasons why he and Tony couldn’t help but rub each other the wrong way, sometimes. Tony Stark could never stop challenging people, and Steve Rogers could never stop accepting every single one that came his way.

His voice was quiet, but immoveable, all traces of apology erased. “You said it yourself, Clint. You made your choice.”

“I did, Steve. We all did. And I wouldn’t have chosen differently. You told us that ‘we fight’, and we did.” Clint smiled, quick and mirthless. “But that was it, wasn’t it? We didn’t _have_ to. Because what do I hear- after the punches have long been thrown, hits landed, words spoken, sides picked.” Another mirthless exhale, Clint shaking his head from side to side. “That Tony screwed over the Accords like he should have long ago, and flew to Siberia to _help_ you check on the remnants of the Winter Soldier program. That he had to find out on his own. Everyone did. That while they’d been begging us to stand down, you could have _talked_ to them?” Clint bit into his lower lip and released a scoffing laugh, eyes bright. “And this from the man who wouldn’t stop harping about his teammates keeping secrets from him during Sokovia.”

_“You…did you know?”_

Steve shook off the memory, heart thundering in his coiled up chest. Clint’s words were like a roar, building up in his ears, ringing in his drums, drowning out all other sounds. The quiet had never been louder. “I…he.” His tongue felt thick, and flubbery in his dried up mouth. “He wouldn’t have listened.”

“Would it have killed you to _fucking try_?” Clint’s tone melded seamlessly with his words, flat and furious. “Couldn’t the fighting have come _after_ the talking? Hey, and speaking of things that can kill you.” A humourless snort. “We didn’t have to blow up billions of public property. I didn’t have to fight against a woman I would have bled out dry to keep safe. Wanda didn’t have to fight the only person she’s formed a real connection with after Pietro. Scott didn’t have to put his life with his daughter on the line for his hero. Rhodes didn’t have to snap his spine.”

“But you had to save your friend, didn’t you.” And Clint looked at him, again, and Steve couldn’t look away- and there it was, all the acrimony. All the disappointment. “Everything else was secondary. Everything.”

_It was hard, to remember a point in his life when he had felt such…..singular emotion. One thing, and one thing alone. Untainted. Casting out, bleaching out everything else._

Steve couldn’t speak.

“Sometime during that battle, the fight stopped being about freedom and the Avengers’ ability to save the world when it needed them, and became about protecting Bucky Barnes instead. And while I’d never back down from saving a man’s life, Captain.” Clint’s eyes flashed, from things brighter than emotion. “We damn well should have had the right to make that choice for ourselves.”

 

A beat.

 And then Clint’s anger seemed to drain- his shoulders falling down and tone curiously listless. “I’m a simple guy, Steve. I don’t do large, philosophical debates. People point, I shoot. That’s how it’s always been.” A careless kick, and a stone skipped from the ground to land with a quiet plop in the middle of the stream. “But as a guy who’s never been good at anything but killing- lemme tell you this. Wars can come to us, and we can fight to end them.”

_“Isn’t that why we fight? So we can end the fight and go **home**?”_

“But nothing’s ever worth starting one. Nothing at all.”

 

~

 

Steve was painfully, incandescently happy the day he saved Bucky Barnes.

But he was starting to think that maybe that wasn’t the only important thing that happened that day.

  


~

   

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm definitely writing at least a second part- though I might extend the series further if the response is nice. Comment if you liked?
> 
> Next part: Tony and Steve finally meet.


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, guys. I've never had such a.....quite frankly, AMAZING reception to one of my works before. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU. To think you all took the time out of your busy lives to drop a kind word- and indeed in some cases, lines and lines of them, means the ABSOLUTE WORLD to me. We all know how negative fandom can get at times; and writing this fic, and reading all of your responses to it, has reminded me how much fun it can actually be XP 
> 
> I am so sorry if I haven't gotten around to responding to some of the comments yet; I thought you guys would rather prefer a chapter over my gushing words of gratitude XD Some quotes in italics have been taken from Avengers (2012) and Avengers: Age of Ultron. Also, a couple of comics references for the intrepid nerd may be found herein.
> 
> Enjoy!

His ears were ringing. Or maybe it was their footsteps, staggering yet resolute, slowly fading away.

He lay there for what felt like ages. There were no sounds. No rats scrabbling in the rotting ceiling boards, no plinks of dripping water. No distant cries from the Siberian wildlife. No wind. It was like death itself came to sleep in this desolate, forsaken bunker.

_Where secrets come to die_. He thought, and laughed soundlessly at his own joke.

 

He kept hearing footsteps though. Echoing in the distance, against the cold concrete floor where his forehead rested. _Clop, clop, clop_ , pounding against the walls of his skull. _Clop, clop, clop_.

Except that couldn’t be right. They had left a long time ago.

Eventually he raised his head- because that’s what he always did. The world swam in a palette of water-colours: washed out grey and dirty white, black snaking along the ground- gleaming dark red where it caught the light. He rested a gauntleted hand against the floor and pushed- whoa, whoa, whoa. The world _swung_ and tilted about its axis: a merry, merry, merry-go round. His head hurt, his neck even more so. The suit was so heavy.

But up he had to get. So he pulled a knee forward with a screechy clank: the joints hadn’t locked, thank god. His head hung forward, chin on his collarbone- he breathed: harsh and soft and grating against his three-ton chestplate like a heaving forge. Shattered glass peeked just at the edge of his vision- no no, avert, avert. Closed his eyes, tilted his head to the ceiling. He could do this. He could absolutely do this. Up, up, up……yes, that’s it, that’s it, he hauled his body to a halfway standing position, thighs burning, knees wavering- oh no, _fuck-_

_-_ and down they came, him and the suit, catching the floor harshly on his knees. His mouth tasted blood, his chest screaming bloody murder. Not enough, the suit was dead weight. He needed something to support it. 

Something blue and metallic gleamed from the black floor.

He had to unlatch his gauntlet- powered down as it was, it would only mess with his grip. The shield was cold to the touch- burning, almost. Poisonous. Scalding the flesh of the unworthy.

His fingertips tautened on the rim, white as bone. He tightened his jaw, dug the fucking piece of metal into the stretch of floor before him, leaving a groove, bearing some weight- and staggered on.

It was almost dark by the time he made it outside- the stars were gleaming: cold, white pinpricks of light. The blanket of white snow was now a bleak expanse of glittering grey. His boots crunched into the icy powder, took a few steps- then that ineffable thing, beyond strength, beyond sinew, maybe called will- finally gave out. He landed on all fours this time, shield slipping from a numbed hand and rolling to lie flat on the ground beside. One exhale, crystallising inches from his mouth, and another. A third, final- and then he pulled his useless right hand back to fiddle with the catches on his right shoulder. One little wiggle of the lever……there. There. GPS on.

A faint dialling tone emanating from the vicinity of his elbow; oh, his helmet stuffed in its crook, of course. Lifted it gingerly and slid it halfway on, careful to avoid jagged edges. The sound got louder with proximity, seeming almost unreal in the barren landscape.

_Ring_. _Ring_. _Ring_.

A minute click. Tony felt something wet creep out of the shadow of his eyelids.

“Mr Stark?”

He squeezed them shut, and let the wetness escape. “Hey, Jarv. Nice to hear your voice.”

“I’m n-“ A pause. Then, like it had never happened. “Of course, Mr Stark. Where are you?”

“I…I don’t quite know, J.” His voice had never sounded this hoarse. Had it? Maybe Afghanistan. Fuck, he hated deserts. “I had memorised the coordinates, but the suit’s dead and I can’t seem to remember them right now.”

“That’s alright.” Soothing. The voice was so soothing. Hell, he’d missed JARVIS. Why had he gone away again? “Your GPS locator is on. I can track you. I’ll be with you shortly.”

“You’re always with me.” Tony told him. “That was the whole point of making you.”

“Yes, of course. That was silly of me.” Ridiculous. JARVIS was never silly. “Are you cold?”

“A, a little bit.” His right hand was still clawed into the icy ground, where the shield had fallen away. His face was numb. “You won’t be able to spot me, though. Not even with the hot rod red. The lights are dead.”

“I will find you.” The voice said. Determined. Assuring. “Just…hang on, alright?”

“I have the shield.” Tony said. His chest hurt. “I want to throw it away, but Howard wouldn’t have liked it.”

Another pause. This time longer, more weighted. Then, quieter than anything else. “Just hang on.”

“Kay, J. Peace.” Another slight click, the call disconnecting. ‘Hang on’. Modern slang sounded so odd in that old-fashioned, British register. It was the same like with Ste-

He was tired. Sleep would be nice, but the greyish white ground looked so uninviting. But all would be fine. Someone was coming for him. No more fighting, screaming, punching….strangling. He could sleep. All would be fine.

In the search of a, what, pillow? that wasn’t there, his insensate fingers discovered a smooth, curving slope- a nice, rounded shape raised from the ground. He tugged it toward him, snow scraping to the side as it moved, and curled his body sideways to curve around the object. Right shoulder hitting the ground, his cheek came into contact with cold, unforgiving metal- polished to the smoothest of finishes. His thumb stroked across the surface under his head, but he couldn’t see the colours in the dark.

Tony closed his eyes.

 

~

 

Being on the run wasn’t nearly as exciting as the pictures made it out to be.

Steve generally regarded himself as a rather patient man. Sure, he liked excitement as much as the next guy- his career choice was kind of a blaring signal on that front. But he’d always hoped….well, back during the war, his fantasies had always taken on a very particular form. Peace. Something like prosperity. Contentment, perhaps?

Now….it was, mildly disconcerting. Discovering you were nothing like the fella you thought you were.

(That could pretty much serve as the theme for the whole of the last couple of months.)

He liked to fight. It was a sour thing to swallow- but swallow it he did. The Ultron debacle had been good for that, at least. He liked the physicality of it, the feeling of leaving an….impact. He liked proving himself, over and over and over and over. And it wasn’t just a flaw to acknowledge, and do his best to eradicate. It was something to accept, however unwillingly, and be at peace _with._

_“I don't know, family, stability. The guy who wanted all that went in the ice seventy-five years ago. I think someone else came out.”_

_“You alright?”_

_“I'm home.”_

Natasha helped, with that sort of thing. For someone who slipped skins on and off so easily- she was more aware than most, of the….things, about a person, that didn’t change. Never changed. Immutable. That a person couldn’t simply will themselves to perfection, no matter how desperately hard they tried. Letting the monster breathe, she called it. Said if you sealed it up too tight, cracks would appear on the surface- and it would come bursting out, wild and desperate and ugly, imploding at the worst of moments.

Sublimate it, she said. Use it for better things.

(She’d gone into hiding too. And no one could take care of themselves better. But Steve missed her.)

Anyways……excitement. Yeah. Not something to be found in great abundance in Steve’s life nowadays, for someone who was technically an ex-superhero. Being on the run wasn’t very conducive to most life pursuits, forget ones involving any actual action. Things would have been so much more convenient if he had a secret identity.

That- that was a thing that existed, right? Or maybe his old comics just liked lying to him.

_“Everything that has ever been written down, story or otherwise, is a lie- if you actually think about it.” Bruce pushed his wiry spectacles up the bridge of his nose, mouth downturned and thoughtful. “The truth is supposed to simply exist, independent from everyone and everything else. Words are always someone’s version of the truth- and so, innately fallible.”_

(A remarkably grim way to look at it, Steve had thought at the time. Then he’d glanced to the side and seen Natasha’s completely enamoured expression- and tried not to think about what the Hulk and the Black Widow found romantic. Probably Nietzche.)

(God, he missed them all.)

 

(…what would Bruce have done, though? More than anyone he knew, Bruce _despised_ governmental control…but then Tony was the closest friend he had, and Steve tried to imagine his reaction on finding out that Steve had disabled the suit; hell, him _being_ there at the desolate Siberian bunker while Steve brought down the shield on the arc- and felt a wave of alarm strong enough to never contemplate the idea ever again.)

_“If you can’t stand to bear witness to something you’ve done, Stevie,” Ma’s fingers drifted through his blonde wisps of hair, careworn and angelic. “-in your own words, strong and proud; if you can’t bear to let it stand in the light of day, for people to find and see and **know** \- it’s a pretty good sign that maybe you shouldn’t have done it in the first place.”_

Damn, he was digressing all over the place. Unable to keep a straight tack. Maybe that was what happened when there was nothing to do. No clear, defined end goal in sight. Nothing to drive towards. Nothing to really keep his mind occupied. His mind just- digressed; darted down dangerous roads that there was no point contemplating, brooding and churning and tossing in memories and thinking about what-ifs and making the lead in his gut feel…permanent, somehow. For all that the air around him was mostly silent for the past weeks, his head was alive with sound: except instead of the Commandoes’ raucous voices, Bucky’s snicker, Peggy’s smooth register- he could hear Bruce’s mumbles, the foreign, erudite swirl to Thor’s words when he got a little cocky, Natasha and Clint conversing in a code known only to them that seemed entirely comprised of names of cities; Tony mocking him gleefully over pop-culture.

He knew the sound of this record- it was set to an orchestra of a deep, grieving, aching sense of loss. It had played in his head ever since he woke from the ice; yet this, this current one plaguing his mind, was somehow utterly different- punctuated by something thick and twisting, stabbing at his heart at odd intervals, gnawing at his feet in restlessness. This was the difference between having something precious snatched from you, and letting something go from your own hands. Except……letting go was supposed to be accompanied by something like peace, wasn’t it? Resigned sacrifice, but acceptance.

These…..remnants, swirling around his head. They didn’t feel like acceptance. They smelled faintly of regret, and Steve was starting to realise that maybe it was the difference between letting something go, and chucking that something against the wall to see it shatter before your eyes.

Then of course, like something inevitable, Natasha’s low soprano took over his hearing again- describing how denial was a delicate, fragile construct; how essential it was for mental health, how sometimes damaging, how almost every man who’d committed a cruelty sought its help to do what he had done- how maintaining it required careful, almost deliberate lack of thought, an unnatural focus on some things and disregard of others. How when it started crumbling, it started all at once and it was like looking at the real world again after staring for ages through a kaleidoscope, though some still clung to it, smiling through their downfall- so much so that they didn’t even feel the impact as they hit the ground. And then it broke, all of a sudden, as the dust began to settle and the quiet began.

 

 

Steve blinked at the glowing white screen, and scrolled down.

This, was his life now. There were plans of course, large, elaborate plans for secret divisions of erstwhile superhero teams- but while the climate remained this unstable and hostile……there was a bit of a hiatus on that. So yeah, this life. Not the greatest in terms of excitement. Stepping outside was irresponsible in the extreme most of the time, so he worked out indoors. Sometimes he drew- but strange, frightening shapes emerged on the paper nowadays, the colours too stark, the red too bright; so he stopped. Sat down on his chair, and surfed the internet on his laptop like a good little twenty-first century man, all while the voices in his head tried their best to scream louder than the silence outside.

Some of the articles were nice to read. Diverting. He was mindlessly skimming through something about kale and smoothies and effects on carcinogens (he’d have to remember to Google that word later), when an errant click opened at least six tabs- bloody hell, stupid _ads_ , this never used to happen when he was back at the Facility-

_That’s what happens when you get too used to Tony Stark’s tech. You miss his ad blockers._ It was his own voice in his head this time, and Steve would have given in to the urge to laugh hysterically- had said laugh not died a quick, miserable death in his throat at the sight of the same man plastered across his screen.

It was the third of the tabs that had opened- _TONY STARK MEETS MYSTERIOUS WOMAN?!!! -_ was the blaring headline, and grainy, shaky mobile cam footage was playing onscreen, of what looked like Tony Stark walking down a regular street.

Except…..that wasn’t quite right, was it. The man on screen had no suit on. A dark-coloured shirt obscured his arms till his wrists, grey sneakers peeked beneath washed out jeans. His shoulders were down, his chin lowered, and he walked on and on, as the residents of –what borough was that anyway? The Bronx? Queens?- passed him unseeing; with only about one in ten doing a double take and turning their heads to watch the lone figure trace his way through the streets of New York.

Three minutes elapsed, with Tony’s steady footfalls, rounding corners and pausing at crossings- before Steve realised that nothing was going to happen.

He was familiar with the action of watching Tony Stark on video. Most of the modern world that had grown up in this century was- the man was everywhere. And he knew how to conduct himself: it was like his every action, every movement was perfectly choreographed to draw eyes, draw attention and keep it. Like every second of the man’s life was meant to be caught on film. Maybe that was why this unending, shaky bit of footage was so off-putting. It was like nothing that Tony Stark had ever put on show before. No skin, no alcohol, no buzzed celebrities hanging off his arm, no glitterati, no insults and quips in equal measure being flung at the camera. No impassioned speeches, no iron suit, no explosions.

Yet….nothing happening was a bit of a misnomer. For, with every second of Tony putting right foot in front of the left, lips silent and unmoving; Steve’s chest drew tighter and tighter. He would have envied the fresh air that Tony was getting to breathe in, if it didn’t seem so much like the man was trying to _escape_ , perhaps into the background, perhaps somewhere else. The last time he’d watched one of Tony’s videos had been of that ill-fated, infamous birthday party- _“I’ve seen the footage. You fight for nothing but yourse-“_ He hadn’t believed he could have felt anything stronger than the disgust that had uncurled through his chest then-…..but this. _This._

Onscreen, Tony sidestepped a passer-by, and his lips moved- maybe in apology, Steve could hear nothing. He stopped at yet another crossing, and waited, face lined, eyes fixed at some unseeing point on the horizon. Steve jabbed at the pause button, chest burning.

He just couldn’t _take this_ anymore.

And that was it, the construct collapsed- and he thought of Sam, ashamed and regretful, who he _still had_ , and Clint, angry and resentful, but still _there_ , and Wanda, and T’Challa, wise and supportive, and Scott, eyes glowing with hero-worship, and Bucky, who was _safe_ \- and he _had_ them if he wanted them, all of them, and yet. How could he have been so- so selfish and _self-centred_ enough to think that he was the only one suffering from the quiet?

Onscreen, Tony’s hands were jammed into his pockets, as he waited- frozen in time, for the light to turn green, among a crowd of strangers.

There was another video listed on the sidebar, from a couple of months ago. Steve’s fingers guided the mouse, almost unfeelingly- he needed something older. Something reminiscent of better, livelier times.

It opened in what looked like…..a drawing room? There were Christmas decorations in the background, and a very familiar-looking woman playing a grand piano in the fore. Steve’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion……but yeah. Yeah. There, to the side. That was definitely Howard.

God, he looked so grim. Hair turned completely white, straight-jawed. The Howard from back in Steve’s time would have spluttered his drink all over his collar, if he’d seen this. He’d probably still be buzzed that he didn’t lose all his hair with age though, the vain prat. And it wasn’t like he’d changed completely. The way he interacted with the teenager on screen- that snark was still there.

From there though, the progression of Steve’s thoughts was almost inevitable- the poorly lit scenes flashing before his eyelids, Howard’s face crumpling as it was smashed in by a metal fist. Steve’s chest squeezed in pain at the memory; but for perhaps the first time, it wasn’t because of Bucky’s impassionate face, or horror at what his best friend had become. He saw another friend’s life brought to a merciless end, effortlessly charming, fiercely intelligent, and grieved; because while Bucky’s head had been slowly being erased of all traces of Steve, and Peggy had been getting married- Howard Stark had been sending expedition after expedition to the Arctic determined to keep Captain America alive.

_“You don’t deserve that shield. My father ma-“_

 And there it was- the elephant in the room. Or the teenager, in this case. Tony.

God, he looked so _young_. It was easy to forget, how many decades Tony Stark had spent on this world, until Steve saw that unblemished, unlined face, the almost innocent eyes. Still not happy though. And then _Tony_ , the version of him that Steve knew, appeared behind the domestic scene and pronounced that this was how things ought to have happened, but didn’t; and the plastic of the mouse under Steve’s grip squeaked dangerously.

Because this was just like him, wasn’t it? Even while donating millions of dollars to impoverished students, and ways to help people get over mental trauma (maybe he’d have showed it to Steve, one day, and then he’d be able to have that last dance with Peggy at the Stork Clu-), he was still baring his vulnerabilities in their faces. Look, I made a way to deal with things people would rather not deal with. I’ll show it to you by publically displaying the last, tainted memory I had with my parents. Look, I have a chest full of shrapnel clawing its way right to my heart. I’m putting a bright, shining light right over it. So you know exactly where to hi-

The phone in Steve’s pocket buzzed.

Steve uncurled his hand, where crushed black plastic was sitting, smoking wires peeking through the gaps, where a mouse had once been. Chest still thundering, he slipped his fingers into his right pocket and pried the phone out, eyes darting in a distracted manner over the caller ID flashing onscreen- just as his heart stopped.

He knew that number.

He hadn’t bothered saving it- it had seemed a bit too foolishly hopeful. Slipping that phone in the FedEx package in the first place had been an exercise in foolish hope. He had known that the effort was futile, even before the letter had been sent and every sentence playing on loop in his head made him cringe with the ignorance innate in those words. But now, the phone was ringing and the screen was flashing and that meant on the other side was….was…

One single swipe of his thumb, was all it would take- yet Steve found himself curiously frozen- mouth dry, eyes unblinking. After that brief stutter, his heart had taken to an outright rampage in his chest, thundering out a rhythm that felt too frantic for his ribcage to hold. All of the voices and thoughts from over the past hour seemed to merge into one incomprehensible mess and _scream_ in Steve’s ears, but any time the phone would stop ringing and-

He swiped to the right.

The screen of the phone seemed cold, almost clammy, as he pressed it against his ear. His voice was stupidly, stupidly steady. “Hello?”

There was an interminable silence, seemed like it was spanning several lifetimes. Then-

 

Cool, level, an android’s tones. “Captain Rogers?”

Steve didn’t……if there had been any specific moment that Steve could pinpoint, where the lead in his gut solidified to cold, hard regret- it would be this. He spoke on- because that’s what he did, pushed on no matter what, but he didn’t recognise the sound of his voice. “Vision.”

“That’s right, Captain Rogers.” Vision’s voice replied, levelly. There were no pleasantries following it. That….answered all questions about whether the android could feel emotions, Steve supposed.

Still- he couldn’t quite care about that right now. His voice was still a mystery to him- composed or hoarse, unsteady or emotionless. He didn’t quite know. “How did you- …which phone are you calling from?”

“Mr Stark gave it to me.” Vision said. As if there had been any other possible answer. As if Steve had been expecting anything else. “He told me to keep it, and call if additional assistance may be required on a matter, as per my judgement.”

_But I gave it to him. To call me if he needed me._ That….didn’t need to be voiced. Steve hadn’t even known that voice existed, till he heard it ringing pure and true in his head. The one that did reach the air, was much gruffer. “Is any assistance needed?”

“There’s been a….situation in Russia. St. Petersburg, to be exact.” Vision’s voice was careful, almost inordinately so. “The UN Council is dithering over whether to send the Avengers or not- Russian sovereignty is a rather delicate thing to violate. I don’t believe the Russian government would seriously object to our presence there, but by the time anything is fully finalised, there may be several lives lost already. Considering the Accords are new and must be honoured to restore the public’s faith in us- well.” And here, his words slowed down to something even more cautious. “The best option in this scenario would be to send a group….not technically under the purview of the Accords, per say, owing to a lack of signatures- to get in, erase the threat and get out before any significant damage is caused.”

Steve exhaled. _I told him. I told him ItoldhimItoldhimItold-_ but the words were strangely less gloating, and more desperate. “We’ll be there.”

“Excellent.” Vision said, short and crisp. “I’ll send you the coordinates and any additional information over an encrypted text.”

“Fine.” Steve was exhausted. He hadn’t seen any action in weeks, and was finally going to get some, and the point he’d been trying to make and fight for _ages_ had finally been proved- but he was strangely devoid of anything, but a lingering ache in his bones and the lead in his gut. “Vision, does Tony kno-“

The call terminated.

Steve resisted the urge to fling his phone at the wall. With any luck, he’d smash the phone _and_ leave a crater in the wall- and he’d broken enough things for a lifetime.

 

~

 

Tony opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

“5:43 am.” FRIDAY murmured, quietly. “It’s March the twelfth, two thousand and seventeen. You’re in the new Avengers facility. Good morning, boss.”

“Morning FRIDAY.” He stretched his arms along the sides of the bed, rustling through the silk sheets. His toes uncurled, brushing against the fluffy down of the comforter that he’d thrown off his body sometime during the night. Everything was deceptively comfortable.

“Should I dim the lights further?” FRIDAY enquired, as perfectly considerate as she always was. “You’ve just had about six hours of sleep, and the sun’s not exactly up-“

“But six hours is healthy. Isn’t six hours healthy, FRIDAY?” His head left the pillow, and his feet swung to the side, bare heels settling over warmed floors. They arched and flexed, then flattened completely as he pulled himself up to his feet, moving automatically to the expansive windows. “I haven’t seen 5 am on the right side since……ever, really.”

“The records I’ve been able to retrieve indicate Christmas morning, when you were eleven.” FRIDAY responded, even more quietly.

Tony smiled, lips twisting. “Ever was pretty accurate, then. Another lifetime, really.”

“I still believe you should go back to sle-“

“Baloney. Benefits of early rising, I’m sure there are a million articles out there.” He walked to the door, pushing it open, feeling it yield softly under his fingertips. A slight pause. “Is Rhodey awake?”

Another pause in response. “Breath patterns indicate Colonel Rhodes has left REM quite a long time ago, although his eyelids are closed.”

Breath patterns……that probably meant hitches, indicating pain. Fuck, Tony needed to go there right now. Except…..no, Rhodey had snapped at him the last time he’d turned up in the middle of the night, even though Rhodey did it for him often enough. This flip in their dynamic probably threw him off- with Tony as the caregiver and Rhodey as the recipient…but no, he wasn’t that egoistic. Rhodey was perfect. Proud, but perfect. He might hate feeling so dependant when he’d been so self-sufficient all his life- but that wasn’t the reason Tony should stay away. Sometimes a man needed to stave off his pain in solitude, with no energy to spare for comforting others- and that was what Tony was after, really- getting comfort rather than giving. He might kid himself into thinking he was helping, but what he wanted was Rhodey to tell him that he was a jerk, and that nothing could keep Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes down and bound to the ground. He wanted to soothe himself by seeing Rhodey’s chest rise and fall, in a sign of life. Dynamics didn’t flip that easily.

And Rhodey deserved better than that. Better than catering endlessly to someone’s infinite set of….needs.

“Tell me if anything changes.” Tony moved through the corridors till he emerged in the communal kitchen- shining and spotless. There was a jar of paprika slightly skewed from its position in one of the cabinets, but that was easy enough to ignore. There was a jacket slung over one of the steel chairs- one of his own. Pulling it over bare skin, Tony picked up one of the tablets on the glass centre-table and pulled up his account- dark eyes skimming over screens as fast as his finger could pull them up. “Don’t I have about two hundred documents or so to look through and sign for SI?”

“You do.” FRIDAY sounded a little….distracted, the way she always did when she was perusing information in her servers and talking to him at the same time. JARVIS never used to do that, even though their programming had been identical in those respects. It was wondrous, and endearing. “You could probably put them off till Thursday, they’re fairly urgent but will not impact too much on delay-“

And she was also far more forgiving of his vices. “That’s not what a good head of R&D does now, is it.” He dropped onto the couch, jacket sticking uncomfortably to his skin, left hand darting to the side table to pick up a stylus. “Now go occupy your servers surveying the world for trouble. And processing the latest upgrades in the armour. Being my nanny is far too much of a waste of your brilliant abilities.”

“I…..don’t nanny you.” FRIDAY sounded almost uncertain. Dammit, Tony should have worded that better. When was he ever going to get things right? “I look after your welfare, as my predecessor did before me, because it is my duty. You need reminders for your sleep, and eating, and work hours, and-“

“And now I’m telling you I don’t, anymore.” Tony replied, gently. “Not that I don’t require your assistance. I’d be flying dead without you. But during downtime, unless I actively ask you for something- I’m asking you to gather some really important data for me, instead of shepherding my daily activities. Can you do that?”

“..Alright.” And there was that little shift, that absence of an electronic whine that Tony was probably imagining anyway- that indicated FRIDAY was no longer actively surveilling the area.

_“There are…no strings…on m-“_

Tony breathed.

 

 

When he next heard FRIDAY’s voice, she sounded almost….thrown off. “You’re making breakfast.”

“Astute observation, FRIDAY.” Tony flipped the omelette, then squinted at it from one side. Then the other. Yellow-brown. That….was probably good.

“It’s been two hours.”

“Which means its eight am, which is breakfast time for healthy people.” There were still scattered white bits though. That didn’t mean those parts were uncooked, were they? He seemed to recall having white eggs in the past that were fairly cooked. Still. A bit more frying probably wouldn’t hurt. “And before you ask- yes, I’ve finished all my work and am positively ravenous.”

Tony didn’t much notice the rather long, uncharacteristic pause before the next sentence, as immersed as he was in the integrity of his omelette. When it came though-

“I’m worried about you.”

FRIDAY was like that. Far more open about her…emotions, unlike JARVIS who’d like to communicate solely through snark, as if far less caring of Asimov’s Laws than concerned with Tony’s feelings. As far as said feelings were concerned, Tony was making a rather concentrated effort to focus on said FRIDAY/JARVIS comparison- it made it easier not to think about his muscles that had frozen in place the second that computerised voice had spoken the words.

“I don’t know what you’re-“

“You sleep on time.” FRIDAY was much more given to interruptions too, possibly because of aforementioned caring. “You cook, and eat, and don’t get completely lost in your work, and listen to me when I ask you to take a break when you do-“

“Truth be told, I’m still not seeing where the worry is coming from, here.” Tony unfroze his muscles with purposeful deliberation, and proceeded to turn off the stove. “I’m being positively angelic here. Isn’t that how adults are supposed to behave?”

“But that’s all you do.” FRIDAY was starting to sound almost distraught, and god. When had her vocal assemblers gone so completely out of control? “You go to meetings with politicians and businessmen, and work, and do everything you’re supposed to do- but you’ve been spending lesser and lesser time with other people, with the lone exception of young master Peter-“

Oh dear god, did that bring back memories. Old Edwin Jarvis, straightening his collar with a gentle _Master Tony-_

 “You barely talk at all- and I don’t know if it’s because of recent events or because you do not feel as free with me as you did with JARVIS- but all the data I’ve gathered indicate that you talk better than most members of the human race and you…should.” FRIDAY was still going strong and…..hell. There it was, Tony’s old friend, Master Guilt. “….And you haven’t called me Girl Friday in ages, or Fry- which is a witty wordplay on my name and the fact that I’m the youngest of your AI, after the manner of fish; and I understand my predecessor disapproved of your nicknaming but I feel rather…prized, when you do so.”

There was a quiet whirring, in the silence after those words.

In spite of the myriad feelings twisting behind his sternum, Tony turned- and a bot with one hand rolled up the kitchen floor, pepper can held aloft.

“I wished to surprise you.” FRIDAY finished, quietly.

Tony dropped to his knees without a thought, and patted DUM-E’s strut. He blinked- once, twice, then huffed a little in amusement as DUM-E waved the pepper can before his nose.

“I.” He cleared his throat. God, what had he even been thinking. FRIDAY was amazing, and nothing like Ultron. Even though his ‘worrying’ behaviour over the last weeks had nothing to do with this pattern of thought.

He took the pepper can, fingers wrapping around it tightly, voice almost too quiet to be heard. “You spoil me, Fry.”

“It’s my genuine pleasure, boss.” FRIDAY sounded warm. She sounded…..pleased. Some days, her extremely enhanced emotional capacity, and lack of reluctance to display that emotion scared him. Today was not one of those days.

In typical fashion, something had to happen to interrupt this pleasantly domestic scene. A faint trill filled the air, and FRIDAY said- “You have an incoming call from Miss Potts.”

He breathed, then rose to his feet. Fastened the buttons of his jacket, covering up his chest. Flexed his fingers, curled them into fists, flexed them out again. Then, as if the pause had never happened- “Bring her up.”

She looked amazing- even in a hologram, without the help of colour to fill in her strawberry blonde hair, or her creamy, freckled cheeks. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her collar straight and starched, but there was that smallest indent in her lower lip that indicated she’d been chewing it before making the call.

“Tony.”

“Pepper.” Tony resisted the urge to fiddle with the cuffs of his jacket. It would accomplish nothing. All his first impulses were the same- deflect, joke, snark, jibe, throw it back at her. Ultimately useless. So it only made sense to go straight for it. “How much do you know?”

That little thrown-off pause was identical to FRIDAY’s not even a minute ago- huh. Seemed like he’d ferreted out his source of inspiration for her after all. Being more than two years old though, Pepper made a far more dignified recovery. Replying straight back. It was almost funny, how unusual that was for them. “Enough.”

She fixed her eyes on him, steady and unwavering- the same eyes that had fixated on his the day they’d decided to…..step back a little. He wondered what she thought, what her reaction had been- on knowing that the people that he’d inadvertently chosen over her had left anyway.

That wouldn’t matter though. This was Pepper he was talking about. She’d keep her feelings out of it, and do the right thing. So he matched her gaze, just as steady, and held it throughout as she spoke without as much as a segue way-

“I can be there in three hours. Do you need me there?”

He would have answered yes. His first impulse was probably always a yes. Pepper was a fixture of his life. This was a chance to get their friendship back on track- possibly even get back on the way of rekindling things. More Pepper was always good.

But then something made him hold his tongue- and he took a step back in his head, and paused. Put aside what he wanted, for a second- and considered what was on offer. Pepper’s head was tilted slightly to the side, her expression firm but unsmiling- she was proffering a hand of support. Someone who’d pull him out of the bottles if that was what was required, make sure he was eating and sleeping, take care of him.

Tony thought about the sunrise he’d watched today, and the work he’d finished, and the work he’d successfully put away. He thought about how there were no grease marks on his chin, no table marks on his cheek. He darted a glance back at the kitchen counter, where there was an omelette on a pan- strangely shaped but perfectly edible. He looked back at Pepper, and thought how he wasn’t happy, wasn’t content, was lonely down to his very bones.

But. But.

_“Do you **need** me there?”_

He thought about the folded piece of paper, currently crinkling inside the pocket of his jacket.

“Nah.” Tony said, and didn’t bother to smile in reassurance. But this wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t a lie. “Nah, I’m good.”

 

~

 

_Metal was cold under his thighs- cold, hard and unyielding. He hoisted himself further up, for a better grip, ankles and knees clamping down on the twisting body below him- trying fruitlessly to buck him off._

_The helmet stared back at him, light behind the slits white and cold; and it enraged him, so he brought the shield down, again and again- until the helm cracked open at the neck and Tony’s face snarled back at him._

_It was…..it was a bit of a shock, seeing so much emotion raging at him when seconds prior, there had been nothing but blank metal. He wanted to hold Tony down, so he’d listen to the apologies, so he’d just **listen** \- but Tony had gone mad with vengeance and Steve didn’t even know if he could blame him. But Bucky was lying not ten feet away with his arm blown off- and Steve was scared, he was fucking **terrified** , he couldn’t let Bucky die, not when Peggy and Howard and Dum-Dum and everyone he knew were- he couldn’t be left alone, not again, not again, not-_

_He was still holding his shield above his head, he realised, his arms straining with the effort. Sweat clung to his uniform and beaded above his lip- and Tony’s dark eyes glistened like something fey, his face twisted into something unrecognisable with the raging pain- pain and rage, rage and pain, they were all indistinguishable at this point._

_“Finish it.” Tony spat out, white incisors gleaming against a bloodied lip. He looked…..done. Like he was spitting in the very face of life, and needed no grim reaper’s invitation to kick the door in its face._

_And Steve….the shield came down, and down, and he watched his arms bring it down- and it wasn’t slowing, wasn’t changing its trajectory- no, no, no, this wasn’t how it went, this wasn’t how it- and Tony was grinning at him with bloodied teeth and eyes that said ‘I fucking knew it’ and-_

_And his shield came down, and Steve screamed- but that was the sound of metal shattering, not bone. He looked down to see vibranium embedded in a once-glowing circle of light, now shuttered out- and he almost shuddered apart with relief, pure and painful, except…_

_Except Tony’s lips had parted, and now there were minute quivers running up and down his body, the limbs that Steve had been holding down turned stiff and rigid. His forehead was clammy, his skin whiter than a sheet- his eyes rolled back to stare at the ceiling. But the arc wasn’t…..no, no, **fuck** \- and Steve tried to wrench the shield out, hands slipping clumsily against the grip, but it was stuck and Tony was convulsing-_

_He tore it free with a yank and tossed it to the side- and touched the circle in the metallic chest, like the first time Tony had fallen from the sky. But the cover was shattered and the light was out and Tony was stilling, cheek tilted to the side, eyes unseeing- and the light was out. The light was out._

_The light was out, and Steve couldn’t stop screaming._

After that, he almost preferred the dreams of the ice.

 

~

 

“So you think,” T’Challa began slowly. “That after our people had our rarest, most precious mineral stolen from us to fashion weapons- we’re just going to hand over about…eight hundred pounds of it to you?”

“My dad didn’t steal it! Appropriated it, maybe.” T’Challa raised an eyebrow, and Tony had to remedy- damn, the guy was good. “Possibly by illegal means. But hey, isn’t like tons of it doesn’t get smuggled out of the country every year anyway.”

Tony looked on at the African royal’s stony face, and reflected that perhaps that last sentence hadn’t been the best of ideas.

“Yes.” T’Challa said, without backtracking or dithering. Fuck, Tony wished all politicians could be like this. “But not all of them possess the skill to actually use and mould the vibranium into something dangerous.”

Was that…..was that a compliment? It didn’t much feel like one- not with the way it pricked at Tony’s sore spots. Yes, he was damn well aware of how dangerous the things he made could be, thanks.

“Besides. Hadn’t you devised a method to synthesise it anyway?” T’Challa steepled his fingers over his chin- Tony hadn’t realised that was an actual thing people did before this moment. “Or is that just a myth your people made up to conflate your status even further?”

“I..” _don’t know which people you’re talking about, actually, since that little part was supposed to be a secret._ “I did. But the energy requirements for making a three inch chip and eight hundred pounds is remarkably different, believe it or not.”

T’Challa leaned back in his chair, spine still impeccably straight. His tone was inscrutable. “What do you plan on doing with it?”

Tony was a…little taken back at the change of tack, admittedly. He hadn’t actually expected to get this far. He’d come out with it, though. He wasn’t ashamed. “It has been…brought to attention that my armours have a…significant flaw.” He looked straight at T’Challa, resolute and unswerving. “I was hoping to use the vibranium to create a suit absent of any such…weaknesses.”

T’Challa didn’t blink. Tony should have felt unnerved, but didn’t. “I was under the impression that the Sokovia fiasco would have left too much of a bad taste for you to dabble in vibranium suits.”

“I am not Ultron.” Tony said, and wondered if he believed himself. But hey, he now had a UN council to watch over his shoulder, just in case.

“But you still have his base codes.” It wasn’t a question.

“We’re men of science, you and I.” Tony smiled, with all of the teeth and none of the mirth. “And it’s truer of us than anyone else- an idea is the most resilient parasite. It’s almost anathema to kill one. With the help of this one, and a few of my past mishaps,” Extremis, though T’Challa probably knew about that too, “-I hope to fashion something a little more….bleeding edge, let’s say.”

He wondered if he should say more. T’Challa had already made his distaste of foreign-made vibranium weapons quite clear- and the only thing remotely weapon-like that had been forged out of the ‘stolen vibranium’ was a shield (though Tony would never underestimate the dangerous capacity of it again). He should probably wax eloquent on how he proposed to use this particular one for the good of the people and the protection of the masses and other such nice, philosophical things, except what came out of his mouth was, “That was an Inception quote, by the way. The idea thing. Great Nolan movie. Hey, do you guys get American movies around he-“

“Very well.” T’Challa said, and stood up. “I’ll have it shipped over to your facility by the end of this month.” He turned around, meeting apparently concluded, prepared to leave.

Tony blinked once, and blinked again, just to be sure, because- that was it? The king handing over the ‘rarest, most precious mineral’, with nary a question, forget the Spanish Inquisition that it deserved? “One more thing.”

T’Challa turned, head tilting just the slightest in question.

Tony stared at him, not quite knowing what to say. He had secured the vibranium, impossibly enough; questioning T’Challa’s motives behind handing it over was sheer idiocy. The man himself was an insolvable question- remote and solid and unflappable, though it all had to be a farce. Hadn’t it?

Or had the king secured some kind of peace that Tony had never even dreamed was possible?

“About…about Zemo.” Tony turned his eyes away for the first time all conversation, gaze flitting from one background object to the next. “How do you.” He stopped, then started again, T’Challa watching him with impassive eyes all the way. He forced it out. “How did you forgive him?”

A beat. Two.

“I didn’t.” T’Challa said, and something twisted in those black eyes. “I wish to wipe him off the face of this earth just as much as the day I learned that he had murdered my father.”

“Why didn’t you?” Tony asked, and it was like his mind had whited out with the pain again, images flipping before his eyes in a vividly torturous reel. “There was nothing stopping you.” _No one._

“But myself.” The stoic face morphed into one overcast by pain, a kind that Tony knew too intimately. But T’Challa’s lips were curving up, through it all- words final and undeniable. “Men of science you called us, Tony Stark- yet before that, we are men of the people. The people whose wellbeing we feel personally responsible for; the people whom we’ve sworn to protect. We do not have the luxury to feel hurt, as others do. Our hurt is but a tiny drop in an ocean of millions- but we, unlike most, have the power to make it matter. It is therefore on us…” And the Black Panther exhaled a little, irony and resignation coiled into one, “To make sure that we don’t.”

_But it isn’t fair,_ Tony wanted to say, tight and desperate, _it isn’t-_ but his thoughts were interrupted by his own memories, mind flashing back to that last night with Yinsen in the cave; and there was nothing superficially similar about that situation, nearly ten years ago, and now. But it somehow felt like the same anyway. The same, cold, hopeless realisation of purpose.

“Maybe the key was,” T’Challa continued, a little slower. “-seeing the man behind the weapon. The man who’d lost family just the way I had. There was nothing drawing us apart- except the action that I’d choose to take in that moment.”

The man behind the weapon, Tony thought- the man behind the cybernetic arm: James Buchanan Barnes, 107th Infantry Regiment, born March the tenth, nineteen seventeen, Sergeant, war hero, best friend of Steve Rogers- brainwashed, Winter Soldier, Fist of Hydra, assassin, destroyer of regimes, best friend of Captain America, murderer of Howard and Maria Stark-

And Tony closed his eyes, teeth threatening to splinter apart because of how tight he was clenching his jaw- furious, towering rage the only thing that little exercise inspired.

He could still hear T’Challa speaking though, over the blood pounding in his ears. “Of course, that is idealistic drivel that finds little ground in the real world. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. So the only thing I can say…is this.”

And Tony’s eyes flew open, to see the King looking straight back at him. “I realised,” T’Challa said, cold and enunciated. “That by killing Zemo, I was killing two people. Him, and me. I was killing the legacy that my father was leaving behind- of grace, and control, and justice. The Black Panther stands for bigger things than vengeance.”

“I do not know how much you care for yourself, Tony Stark- if at all.” A feather light touch, a king gripping his shoulder for a moment. Tony stared on, and T’Challa’s eyes looked back in something akin to kindness. “But as a fellow man, I say- Iron Man deserves to be alive. Him, and every drop of redemption he stands for.”

“Do not let him die.”

 

~

 

Steve couldn’t stop thinking about the day he betrayed Tony Stark.

It was…..it was a strong word. Betrayal. Not one that he’d ever have imagined applying to himself. There weren’t many things in life he was proud of- but his moral compass had always held him in good stead. Considering he hadn’t really changed his mind on the things that had driven him to make a stand in the first place- the word couldn’t quite fit. Not really.

But then the record would start again- Clint’s blazing eyes, Sam’s twisted smile, Vision’s emotionless words, Tony cutting a swathe through packs of reporters or slipping through crowds of strangers, always alone ( _Tony with unseeing eyes, shield embedded in his chest_ )- and the word had never felt more appropriate.

The day he first thought of the word, he checked on the status of the tracking chip T’Challa had slipped into the phone Steve had sent to Tony. He hadn’t entirely approved of it- it was a massive invasion of privacy, even more so considering the recent turn of events. But the same sanctimonious self that had written out that letter, convinced himself that Tony was proud (which was true) and wouldn’t call for help even if he needed it (which was also true), and that Steve had to have some, however miniscule a chance of tracking Tony down against his wishes if that was what was needed (which was one of the biggest fucking lies and presumptions that Steve had ever had the audacity to make).  

Besides, it wasn’t like Tony Stark wouldn’t think of searching for a tracking chip in a device sent to him by a man who’d literally driven his weapon into his heart.

For all these months, the chip had been a constant blip in the heart of the Avengers facility. Even when Tony paid visits to politicians and military officials and head of states- Steve had assumed Tony had probably shoved the phone into the darkest corner of some drawer in his office in the facility; but hadn’t minded, as long as it was still with him, ready to be drawn out at a desperate moment.

Of course, now he knew that Tony had simply…..given it away to Vision. Which made sense, as far as the location of the chip was concerned- the Accords had done a lot to legitimise Vision in the public’s eyes, but he was still an omnipotent, artificial, terrifyingly powerful being whose brother had raised a city to the skies. Apart from Avengers missions, Vision didn’t much step out of the facility.

Today, though. Today. Today the blip had moved, too far from upstate New York- and somehow Steve could picture in terrifying detail as the plastic flip-phone was finally thrown into a waste bin and collected by trucks and shipped out of the Facility and _crushed_ in recycling-

And responsibility and common sense and everything that had been keeping him inside drove him out- till he stood here. Hand raised to his face, shielding his eyes from the setting sun, somewhere in a park in Queens.

And Tony Stark not five hundred metres away, sitting with his back to Steve on a park bench.

 

There haven’t been many distances in Steve’s life that he has been afraid to cross. There was the flaming chasm in the camp that Steve had first rescued Bucky from- with Red Skull on the other side. There were the twenty steps between him and Peggy, resplendent in a red dress, in that dingy, bustling bar so very many years ago. Still, he’d always taken the leap in the end- flung himself into the unknown, across distances and down heights, never knowing the touch of cowardice. Even when his legs had been too scrawny or too banged up to bear his weight, he’d crawled forward. Sheer grit, if nothing else.

Today, though. Steve Rogers stood for a full fifteen minutes, watching the back of his ex-friend’s head, wondering if he’d ever be able to move his legs.

What would he say? What _could_ he say? All the words were jumping up and down and falling all over themselves, utterly inadequate. Sorry- but he’d said that in the letter already, and it solved nothing. How is Rhodey doing?- but that would probably burn worse than a half-baked apology. I wish I could do everything over- but wishes weren’t horses, and the things he’d already _done_ were…irredeemable. Permanent welts on their already scar-riddled history.

The phone down his pant pocket buzzed.

With unfeeling fingers, Steve prised the phone free and looked at the screen. Ten numbers, arranged in the same order he knew they would be in. And this time, there was absolutely no doubt about who would be on the other line.

He wasn’t going to pick up, Steve realised, hollow and helpless. His thumb was poised, inches from the screen, locked into stillness. Now it only remained to see if he could muster the courage to swipe left, and end things.

The screen stopped flashing. The phone sat in Steve’s grip, still and unmoving.

 

“Alright, come on out.”

For a second, Steve stared at the phone in his hand, wondering stupidly if he’d managed to pick it up after all. Then the source of the voice registered, and…of course. Tony Stark wouldn’t let himself get snuck up on that easily.

Steve raised his head. He could still only see the back of Tony’s; dark strands at the nape curling in the fading sunlight. He took one step. Then another.

When Tony’s face finally came into view, Steve drawing level with the bench….it surprised him, somehow. He’d seen Tony a dozen times on the news following that day- but strangely he’d still been expecting a bruise under an eye, blood seeping from lips and running in a straggly line through the beard, darkly accusing eyes. Not this withdrawn, lined, yet somehow still bland mask.

He opened his lips to speak.

“You had said something, once. I don’t remember to whom, or when. Maybe to Bruce.” Steve fixed his eyes on the same horizon that Tony’s were scoping so intently. “It was something about how hating yourself was the first step to being a good person. How goodness requires a deep, intense self-loathing.” He exhaled, air whistling out past his teeth. “Because the only way for the fickle human mind to be good is to guilt yourself into it. And the second you do start believing in your own goodness….you lapse again.”

“I hated it.” Steve said, eyes somewhere far into the distance. “The idea, the very concept. The thought that goodness had to be something that you forced yourself into. That it wasn’t innate, that it didn’t come naturally. But now...”

“What about now.” Tony’s voice spoke, low and emotionless.

“I’ve been thinking about it.” Steve said, and silence fell- cold and intractable.

“That letter I sent you,” He began again- because it was impossible to stop, once he had started, just as impossible as it had been to start without a push. “So much of it were lies. I have nothing to justify them, except to say that I thought they had been truths, at the time. I had-“ And it was difficult to breathe here, difficult to search for words in their utter, utter inadequacy- “I was blind, and I’d take back a lot of-“

“The part where it said you didn’t mean to hurt me?” Tony inserted, smooth and seemingly untouched- and Steve felt a familiar spark of irritation light up at the back of his head despite it all. Dammit Tony.

“The part where I asked you to call me whenever you needed me.”

Tony finally, _finally_ raised his eyes, and turned to fix those dark irises on Steve. It was like a physical blow, and Steve barely kept himself from flinching- if there hadn’t been a trickle of triumph at the fact that Tony was finally facing him.

“So the offer’s rescinded?” Tony asked, still seated and chin raised; eye level half that of Steve’s and still looking him down.

 “No.” Steve said, and it felt…..not good exactly, but like a release of pain, to finally let the words and voices free. “But that doesn’t change the fact that it was the biggest fucking lie I’ve ever put to paper. Because- what I should have written- what I’ve come to see-“ Two breaths, quick and rushed, in and out. “-is that I might need you. To question me every time I’ve got an idea in my head that I won’t let go of, to be the wall in my path when I’m pushing forward too hard, to pull me down to the ground every time I climb on a ruined pedestal. Because-“ And he thought of his friends again, Sam and Clint and Natasha and everyone else, people who’d questioned his beliefs but ultimately followed or relented, because he was Captain fucking America. “Because no one else has refused to move.”

Silence.

“That,” Tony began, soft and quiet. “Might almost be touching, Rogers. I might have almost believed it too.” He rose to his feet, silhouette limned in orange by the setting sun- like a man on fire. His eyes were the darkest counterpoints. “If you hadn’t physically beaten me aside the last time I had the _audacity_ to question your judgement.”

Steve would have protested against the phrasing of that- he hadn’t been the only one doing the hitting- but the basic principle still stood true, and he still flinched. “I know- but that’s why I _needed_ to talk to you, I was wrong to- I would do so much, _everything_ , differently-“

“Really.” Tony breathed; and it was a light, sibilant, almost scoffing sound. “Answer me this, then. Would you have signed the Accords?”

And Steve had a million words bursting on the tip of his tongue- all the ways he could have shared information earlier, all the ways he could have trusted better. The way _they_ could have communicated better. Solved things, _together_ , just like it was supposed to be. But then Tony asked one, small little question…..and somehow all the words, all the voices in Steve’s head had nothing to say. Nothing to say at all.

“Well then?” Tony pressed. “Okay, how about this. Would you have stood to the side, when you knew I was in pain- and let me attack the Winter Soldier?”

_Bucky._ Steve stared back at Tony, at the hard, flashing eyes that seemed right out of a memory and a nightmare, but he couldn’t move his tongue to speak. _Not the Soldier. Bucky._

“Well.” Tony stepped back, hands to the sides, voice coldly, bitterly triumphant. “Seems like you wouldn’t have done much of anything differently after all.”

“Nothing’s changed.” And Steve watched on as Tony turned his back to walk away, everything done and over with, all the anguish and turmoil that Steve had been bearing on his shoulders for the past months completely futile.

 

And that thought.

……that last thought inspired something, something almost like indignation and frustration and ‘ _this is not how it ends’_ , a determination almost like the Steve Rogers of old, because he was fucking _done_ with helplessness, and his voice had to call out. “Hasn’t it?”

Tony paused.

“I think it has.” And Steve’s voice wasn’t as steady as it should have been, but he couldn’t care less for that. “Would _you_ still kill Bucky if you had the chance to do it?”

But he was so attuned to Tony’s response, and there was a pause which stretched on too long- and a lack of steadiness there too. “He-“ Tony started, and then grew louder, more out of defensiveness than truth. “He can’t be held captive, and he can’t be allowed to roam the streets. He’s too dangerous.”

“That…has been taken care of.” Steve replied, almost on reflex- mind still whirling over the fact that Tony hadn’t mentioned his parents, or even strictly answered.

Tony glanced up, eyes wide and surprised in response; then seemed to recoil into himself. “Doesn’t matter.” He flung out, all pretences of humour and restraint gone. “You’re still as unprepared to compromise as you were months ago, Rogers; don’t even dare to pretend any different.”

And that was…Steve was almost frustrated with himself- because what _was_ the point of all these weeks of self-recrimination and remorse and chest-burning guilt, if he and Tony kept circling around and getting stuck on opposite sides of the _same argument_ that had set them apart ages ago? But- mistakes or no, recrimination or no- there were still things about a person that didn’t change. Immutable. And in the collection of voices that sprung to life in his head, there was still a quiet one that said- _‘no, you move’_ , because Steve Rogers still believed in freedom and the ability of the Avengers to do genuine _good_ in the world.

“I can only apologise for my actions, Tony.” And his voice was quiet, but unrelenting. “Not my beliefs.”

Tony’s features twisted into a disbelieving scowl, and Steve had to resist the urge to throw his hands up into the air. “Governments have agendas, we’ve been over this before-“

“ _People_ have agendas, Steve!” Tony clearly had no such compunctions, because up the hands went, and twisted through his dark hair, leaving a mess behind. He took a challenging step forward, almost daring Steve to bristle. “Tell me that this mess with your _best friend_ had nothing to do with the side you picked.”

Steve didn’t rise to the bait- but the words struck a chord, somewhere- even as Tony backed up again, lips twisting in the strangest mixture of pain and derision. “Humans are machines. Fascinating ones, but fatally flawed- because we _feel too much_. We try our hardest to be objective; but whenever two sides are too close, we _‘follow our heart’_ , which means fall prey to whatever our emotions think best and fuck all that logic might have had to say about it.”

“We make mistakes. We fuck up. The problem with your side, _Steve_ ,” And Tony’s eyes flashed again, hard and brittle and so recklessly vulnerable, “Is that you are fighting for the right of superheroes to be right all the fucking time. Which may be fine when you’re Captain America, but sure as hell doesn’t work out for the superheroic fuck-up Iron Man.”

“You don’t trust yourself.” Steve said, and there was something almost pleading about it. “You’re terrified of the unlimited things you could achieve- it’s not about being right all the time, it’s that I trust _our friends_ more than some shadowy government organisation, I trust y-“

“Again, Rogers.” Tony’s voice was deathly quiet. “This would have been a hell of a lot more touching if you hadn’t pulled shit that indicated anything _but_ trust.”

And here they were again, where the wounds ran the deepest. “I wanted to tell you.” Steve said, desperate all over again, “-but it would only have hurt yo-“

“ _Bull. Shit.”_ Tony’s voice was barely holding level. “You held it back because you _knew_ that it would only lead to me blowing your friend’s fucking head off-“

“ _I don’t know!_ ” And birds were twittering off from nearby branches because Steve was yelling, because the quiet had finally driven him mad and he just _couldn’t_ , anymore- “I don’t _know_ if I did it to save Bucky’s life or to stop you from becoming a murderer, _I don’t know_ if I did it to spare you or him or spare myself- I don’t. Bloody. Know.” His breaths were falling, fast and harsh, and it was like waking up from the ice and pounding on punching bags all over again. “I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know what to say to make it better. I don’t know who should apologise, what was right, what was wrong, what will be right, what would be wrong- I.” Phantom asthma, clutching at his chest, making every inhale hurt. “I don’t know if either of us trust each other. I don’t know how to make you agree with me when you don’t, or me agree with you when I _can’t_.”

Tony stayed silent.

“I just…I want the old times back.” Steve had never thought, in all the days that he’d been awake, that the ‘old times’ could mean anything within this spanking, brand-new century. But he wasn’t thinking of anything else in this moment. “Shawarma, and aliens, and all the rest. I want to be on a team of heroes, and be worthy of being carried around on trading cards in a good man’s pocket.  I want to be on the side of _good_ , fighting bad, alongside some of the best people I’ve ever known. I want spies and gods and rage monsters and robot suits- and I want to know that they still want me too.”

A bird cheeped, far off into the distance.

“Okay.” Tony said. “Okay.”

For a second, Steve couldn’t breathe.

“If this has to work-“ Tony began, and Steve almost didn’t want to listen anymore, he could have agreed to _anything-_ because this was the master mechanic at work here, the man who could put almost anything back together. “Then there has to be some level of give and take.”

“Yes, of course.” Could there even _be_ a way of working past their common lines? Walking the tightrope, being careful not to nudge things too far either way. There _had_ to be. Steve couldn’t settle for anything less.

“I…” And there was a bit of hesitation here, Tony’s fingers fiddling with the hem of his jacket pocket, but he forged on. “If the UN council is……dragging its feet. If there’s any reason the…authorised Avengers can’t do their jobs. Then I’ll call. Drop the info so you guys can sort things.”

“ _You’ll_ call.” And Steve didn’t even know why he was pressing this. This had been his major worry ever since he’d first heard of the Accords- yet this tiny detail was all-encompassing now. “You promise that _you’ll_ be the one to call.”

“I-yes.” Tony looked at him, and for one strange second, their eye-contact held no hostility.

“But.” Tony’s tone was stronger here, and yet also more desperate. “If something happens, in some corner of the world. If things go south, and……I tell you to stay out of it. Promise you’ll listen to me.”

Steve’s voice stuck in his throat- this was a hard bargain. Faces and screams and numbers flashed before his eyes, but… _I don’t know if either of us trust each other._ There had never been a better moment to change that.

“I promise.” He said, and it was hard, but he did. He trusted the Avengers; and if Tony said that a situation didn’t need his involvement- well. He said he needed Tony to keep him on the straight, and for once in his life, he wasn’t going to be a hypocrite.

“What if Ross or someone else wants to use the Avengers for somethi-“

“Then I sick SI’s legal team on them.” Tony smiled, teeth sharp and bared. “There are enough loopholes in that incoherent compilation of a hundred and ninety capital interests; and the Accords are still essentially a legal document. I bury the governments in their own red tape, and hopefully by the time they manage to untangle themselves, the situation would already have been resolved. Agendas can conflict, and we can use that to our own benefit.”

Steve….had to pause there, for a second- maybe in admiration, maybe something else. He didn’t know why he was surprised; he should have understood the second Tony had traipsed down the corridors of the Siberian bunker, talking merrily about truces and the Manchurian Candidate. “I don’t know why I expected you to stick firmly to the rules.”

“Rules serve men Rogers, not the other way round.” Tony smiled again, and it was mirthless; but at least it was still there. “While we should probably hammer out the details at some point- you’re still a fugitive and I’m still the government’s poster boy. Better get going. Pretty Nature won’t keep out the blood-sucking fiends, a la journalists forever.”

“I- of course.” Steve had almost forgotten, about the world that spied in on them both, in the exhilaration that had taken birth in his veins in the past few minutes. But there was something important to say before the sun disappeared completely under the horizon, and this meeting- hard and strange and emotional as it had been, could end.

“Thank you, Tony.” Never had the words been more heartfelt.

“I wouldn’t go about sharing the gratitude just yet.” Tony’s lip curled- and that, was that, really.

Steve was under no delusions that this solved anything. There was no way that things would proceed as perfectly as they’d discussed in one, brief conversation- the team was still scattered, there was the matter of whether they’d even consent to such an agreement (though Steve couldn’t think of a single reason why any of them wouldn’t leap at the faintest chance to heal the divide). The Council would definitely cause trouble; Steve’s own stubbornness would cause a million more arguments. As long as there were screaming matches rather than fistfights.

The underlying disagreement still existed. Trust….was in short supply. They were both going out on a limb and a half- the wounds had been inflicted too deep, and were yet to scab over. This was just duct tape- to messily hold the blood within. There would be scars, and ramifications, and nothing was ever going to be like the olden times ever again.

But as Tony walked away, shoulders pulled back straight, the night coming alive with its myriad sounds in the trees and grass around them- Steve let himself feel a smidgen of hope anyway.

He didn’t have the shield. But hell. He was still Captain America.

 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So......I didn't actually get around to the fully-fledged Steve/Tony. Honestly though, you had to be blind if you were reading it any other way XP I just couldn't find a way to organically introduce that with all the trust issues floating around the place. There will eventually be a follow up to this story though- the second of a series, and some seeds have in fact already been laid in this that will eventually come to fruition in the next, hopefully much longer work. 
> 
> Thank you again- for all the support, all the words of appreciation. You guys make me proud to be an Avengers and a Stony fan, and I hope the ride was just as great for you as it was for me.


End file.
